


Back in Black

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-19
Updated: 2012-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There are omens spreading out all along the Eastern seaboard, the disappearances in Galveston a tipping point, and Castiel is almost certain his dreams are omens too.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back in Black

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Author:** [](http://takadainmate.livejournal.com/profile)[**takadainmate**](http://takadainmate.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam  
>  **Rating:** PG-13  
>  **Word Count:** ~18,000  
>  **Warnings:** language, mild violence  
>  **Betas:** [](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyoka**](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Art:** Chapter banner by [](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/profile)[**geckoholic**](http://geckoholic.livejournal.com/) ; digital sketch by [](http://danny-sama.livejournal.com/profile)[**danny_sama**](http://danny-sama.livejournal.com/) , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/18467.html)** ; digital painting by [](http://slinkymilinky.livejournal.com/profile)[**slinkymilinky**](http://slinkymilinky.livejournal.com/) , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/18927.html)** ; and digital painting by [](http://ammo.livejournal.com/profile)[**ammo**](http://ammo.livejournal.com/) , which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/41041.html)** (art contains spoilers for the episode).

  


  


Sometimes, even when he's awake, Castiel dreams.

These aren't dreams like at night, when everything is dark and buried and suffocating. They're lighter things, where he sees Dean and he sees himself, and they are something like content. At peace.

They've been on the road for days. They sleep under the stars sometimes, because it's too warm for the car, and they're too far from anywhere to find a bed. Dean fusses over Sam, who only needs to cough before his brother is asking if he's okay, if he needs more meds. Castiel watches the clouds and dreams of a home that was never as good as his memory of it, as the humans imagine it; Heaven was discipline and obedience and war, and everything was absolutes. On Earth, as in the reality of Heaven, nothing is – or ever was – absolute. This is what Castiel has come to learn. So he doesn't expect anything from Dean, but he finds he receives everything; Dean's soul is open to him as it hasn't been since Hell. He should have expected that this was how it would be – if Castiel could have ever imagined that he and Dean would move from anger and aggression to a kind of physicality Castiel has never known before. Dean is all or nothing, in everything he does.

As they sleep under the stars, Castiel turns his eyes to Dean and sees Dean looking back at him. There is want there, and Castiel feels it too, something heavy and deep. Sometimes they seek out each other's hands, or lay back to back. _For warmth_ , Dean tells Sam when his brother grins at him in the mornings and finds them laying like that.

He and Dean argue, much of the time, and it is Sam who must intercede. Sam tells them to _stop being childish_ and to _get a goddamn room_ , even when they have a room, and Castiel wonders at the new calmness he can see in Sam's soul, as though the weight of everything that had happened to him had suddenly been taken away, lifted, _relieved_. There is nothing false in it, no influence other than Sam's own will, and Castiel is glad. In Dean, Castiel can find some selfish solace of his own, but he knows both Winchesters are far more worthy than he of peace.

But this balance the three of them have found feels wrong somehow, like it is a brittle thing, precarious and without foundation.

Endlessly, Castiel tells himself he can do nothing about the past, that he should move forward, but he can't make himself believe it. It is tethered to him as much as gravity to his body, as much as the ties that bind him to Dean and Dean to him.

In the day, under the warmth of the sun, Castiel dreams of being free from the weight of memory and guilt even when he knows he shouldn't. He did this to himself. He _chose_ this.

At night he dreams of oceans and grasping hands and empty, dead eyes, and the dreams worsen as the three of them travel north along the coast, until Castiel's eyes ache from the lack of sleep. The dreams become more _real_ , so that Castiel can taste the salt and the fear, and his eyes and his lungs burn, his skin dread-cold where slippery fingers grip at him and drag him down.

Dean is always there to wake him, to tell him it's just his subconscious being a bitch, but it's not. It's more than that. Castiel knows this.

There are omens spreading out all along the Eastern seaboard, the disappearances in Galveston a tipping point, and Castiel is almost certain his dreams are omens too. They are changed from the frantic memory of his time in Purgatory and worse, from _before_ , when he pretended to the throne of godhood and everything he touched turned to dust.

Castiel feels drawn northwards, a tugging in his grace that is like seeking like. It makes him wonder if this is the angels' doing – the disappearances all across the globe. They are certainly capable of it. There is no logic to it though, not as an angel would understand it. There is no method to the omens or the disappearances that Castiel can see. He senses no angelic presence in the places they investigate, site after site of empty spaces left behind. No evidence, not even the lingering sense of evil that often imbues a place where something bad happens.

Then there is Meg, and he can't understand her involvement at all. He shivers at the memory of her touch, of the sigils that bound him. It makes his stomach turn to remember them, a strange sensation, and Castiel concentrates on that, on not throwing up, the nausea preferable to the memory of how the sigils had been used on him before, burning into his grace so that every second had been agony. Castiel doesn't know how long he was in Purgatory – time being meaningless when there is no end to it – but he knows it was too long. Any amount of time there would be too long, and sometimes it awes Castiel that Dean stepped willingly into that misery, and that he did it for him.

Dean notices his discomfort. Dean always notices now when something isn't right. Castiel suspects it's because Dean is always watching, that he has learned Castiel's body better even than Castiel has himself. Dean, Castiel is certain, is as wary of this fragile peace they've found being shattered as Castiel is.

In public, Dean places a hand on Castiel's shoulder, shoots him a small smile, and it is enough to quell the rising panic. When they are alone Dean runs his fingers through Castiel's hair and kisses his mouth. There is no time now for much more.

When Dean and Sam speak of Meg it is in low, hissed voices, and their conversations are short and clipped. Painful.

They see no further sign of demons. It is a relief, but also confusing. If not demons, if not one of the thousands of creatures Castiel knows inhabit the dark spaces of this world, then what?

Castiel thinks and thinks, turns over every possibility, every non-existent clue they've found, and comes up with nothing. It's frustrating.

"Maybe it's something new," Sam suggests.

"There is nothing new," Castiel argues. Without his Father, without Lucifer, without Eve, there can be no creation, nor any twisting of flesh into some new creature. There can only be something Castiel doesn't know, that he has never heard of. Something older than the angels, and that is the most frightening thought of all.

  


The change had been abrupt, like being thrown into a bath of cold water. The analogy is almost a literal one: as soon as Dean's car crossed the town limits, the rain poured down onto them, drumming against the hood, against the windows, against the roof, sudden enough and hard enough for Dean to exclaim, " _Shit!_ " and to swerve the car almost off of the road.

From then on, the rain never stopped. It was like being submerged, lingering damp filling the air, clinging to Castiel's clothes, to the timbers of the motel they'd stopped at. Paint was peeling off of the walls, and a damp smell of mold and decay permeated everything, but it had been the only place they'd found still open.

This is a dying town; Castiel can see it in the empty shells of abandoned houses and run-down shops that line the streets, in the downward, tired gazes of the people who inhabit the town, in the absence of _life_. It reminds Castiel of Purgatory: a place between, one that's going nowhere, never changing, devoid of a future. Devoid of hope. It's not a comparison Castiel likes, and he turns around, away from the motel desk to the lobby's wide window. It's almost wall to ceiling, and Castiel can see why. The view is spectacular, opening out onto a beach of yellow-gray sand, the ocean not far beyond, tall, steel-colored waves crashing against the shoreline, white spray erupting from the impact blown by furious winds even higher into the air. It is nature, powerful and unforgiving, and Castiel finds himself entranced by it.

The sudden sound of wet coughing behind him startles Castiel. He turns sharply, and there's an old, grizzled man standing behind the counter looking at him warily.

"You lost?" the man asks. "You're a long way from the interstate here, kid."

Castiel frowns. He is not a child. The man meets his gaze evenly, almost challenging, and Castiel can't imagine why someone this aggressive and unwelcoming would ever want to work at an inn. But then Castiel has felt this same feeling of suspicion and hostility from everyone he has seen so far in this town. As Dean drove through the rain and the wind, Castiel gazed out of the window of the Impala and saw shadows watching them from behind curtains, an old couple stopped at a streetlight and staring at them like they were strange, unfamiliar _things_.

"I would like two rooms," Castiel tells the man behind the desk. There is an open book on the surface that looks like a register, but the man makes no move towards it.

"You want to _stay_?" he asks instead, disbelievingly.

Castiel is no expert, but he is fairly certain this is not normal behavior. He wishes Sam and Dean hadn't left him to deal with this on his own. As true as it might be that he needs to learn to interact with other humans than just them at some point, he would rather it wasn't with this particular human. There is something about him that sets Castiel on edge, some vague uneasiness, a feeling of power that doesn't sit with what Castiel can see: a human dying of liver disease who has lived in this town all his life. His hands shake and his face is sculpted, cut and marked by harsh sun and wild sea. His hair is gray and thinning. He stoops, moving slowly, as though it causes him pain, when he moves closer to the front desk to lean against it.

"Yes," Castiel replies. The man snorts, but does nothing more, and Castiel wonders if he should explain their _cover story_ , as Dean calls it. They are journalists traveling along the coast looking into the history of these old, sometimes remote, towns. Castiel thinks it's unlikely anyone would believe three adult men were driving around together in the pursuit of purely historical research. As little as he knows about normal human behavior, Castiel comprehends that much. But he has no stomach for lies, and he's certain he would only confuse things anyway so he repeats, "I'd like two rooms."

The man looks at him like he's insane.

Castiel is certain he is doing this correctly.

He has cash in his pocket that Dean gave him, guidelines on the exact types of rooms he should ask for, and instructions to give a false name and sign any paperwork illegibly. He does not have instructions on how to deal with difficult humans who won't give him a room, who just stand and stare at him, arms crossed lazily, looking him up and down disapprovingly. It is not unlike being inspected by a superior. Castiel doesn't like to think of Heaven, so he doesn't. Instead, he concentrates on how his arms prickle with cold where his thin shirt fails to keep his half-human body warm. He hears the winds howling through the narrow gap between the doorframe and the door, the way the wind shakes the window glass in their frames and rain batters against the roof tiles.

The man shakes his head, but seems to have come to some kind of decision because he moves towards the rows of keys set into boxes against the wall as he says, "We don't get many visitors outside of tourist season." He scoffs. "Or during tourist season."

When he considers the shabbiness of the town, filled with closed-down, lifeless shops and decaying boats strung up on fraying ropes to rotting moorings, Castiel can see why. But he says nothing, and the man scowls at him, throwing the heavy keys down onto the desk.

"My best rooms," he announces. There are numbers engraved into large orange key-fobs that were perhaps once shaped like fish. Now they are chipped and scratched. "Second floor. There's no elevator."

The man offers no further instructions, nor does he ask for a name or any payment, simply waving Castiel away and disappearing through a doorway leading into what looks like an untidy, brown-hued kitchenette. From what Castiel can see, it's intensely ugly.

Watching the grizzled man's back shuffle away, the sense of _wrongness_ is so strong that Castiel almost wants to leave, to get out of this motel and this town. To _fly_.

He stays, feet firmly planted on the garishly-patterned, muddied carpet. Dean will return shortly, and he will want to sleep after having driven for so many hours. Castiel has nowhere else to go anyway.

  


There are no reports of unusual weather, or of the storms that are battering the coastline.

Huge, ferocious waves run unchecked up the narrow beaches of the town, ripping at the seafront shops and houses, sometimes carrying them away. No one in the town seems alarmed by it, barely even seeming to notice as they walk by, collars pulled up and faces turned down. There is no life in this town, Castiel thinks again, and as he watches people pass under the window of the motel room, he wonders if the town has always been this way, or if something has happened.

There are no reports of new disappearances either, not in the outside world, nor from these half-soulless, wandering townspeople. Watching them makes Castiel feel cold, and not just because there is no heating in the room, and he hasn't put on the jacket Dean dug out of his duffle for him. There is a hollowness to everything: to the streets, empty of cars, to the shops, empty of customers, to the motel, empty of guests.

There is dust on the windowsill, a thin layer blanketing the room's only table. The air is stale, but Castiel has been unable to open any of the windows. He wonders how long it's been since anyone stayed in this room.

In the small kitchen area, Sam is attempting to make coffee, making disgusted noises at the mold he keeps finding on every surface and cup and spoon. There is no hot water.

"The library was shut down years ago," he says. "Dean, you got any matches?"

Bedsprings creak behind Castiel, and it occurs to him that he doesn't look forward to sleeping on these mattresses. "Here," Dean replies. He eyes the mold on the counter, hesitating before frowning at Sam.

"This isn't gonna make you ill again, is it?"

"Stop worrying," Sam sighs. "I've told you that a million times."

"It's really wet here," Dean points out, and Sam decides to ignore him, saying instead, "I couldn't find an internet connection anywhere either."

After a long moment spent staring at his brother with narrowed, suspicious eyes, Dean lets the matter drop. "My cell doesn't work." Dean doesn't sound so much concerned as irritated. "I wanted to call Bobby."

"Yeah, well, even if you could've I doubt there'd be anything about this town. No one I met would talk to me."

Dean snorts. "I get the feeling they don't like outsiders here."

Sam smirks. "I get the feeling they don't like each other either. There had to have been twenty people or something in the diner down the street, and it was _silent_. It was creepy as hell." Sam pauses. "Jesus, this place is gross. Cas, that guy said this was his best room?"

Sam is incredulous, and Castiel understands why. Of all the time he has spent with the Winchesters since the very first time he met them, this has to be the worst motel room he has ever seen. Nonetheless, "He did," Castiel confirms.

"It's weird," Dean says, turning to face Castiel, "that the guy at the reception didn't give you a price or ask for cash up front."

Castiel can feel Dean's eyes on him but he doesn't turn away from the window. The day is coming to a close, what little light there is fading from the heavy, gray sky. It's still raining, not so much torrential now as a hazy, fine, relentless cloud. Across the street an old woman is pulling the blinds down in her empty shop. Castiel is unable to even determine what it is she means to sell. What sign there was above the door has long since been weathered away, so that now all Castiel can make out is the curve of what was once a blue painted M. She moves slowly but with purpose, easily, as though her actions are automatic, well-practiced, and Castiel wonders if she does the same thing every day. He wonders how long she has been here.

In the outside world, following the road up the coast, in the villages and towns they'd passed through, there had been rumors, tales told of a summer town up past Little Egg Harbor that had drawn crowds of tourists for its warm beaches and its fresh seafood. The fishermen there were wealthy, there was an aquarium and a fairground, and everyone talked about how perfect it had been. The people were friendly and welcoming, the weather never failed to be anything but pleasant, mild even in winter, there was no trash on the beaches, the water was crystal blue and calm. _Safe_ , they called the town, never once mentioning its name. Then it all stopped, the gossip said. It had been almost overnight; one minute there had been hoards of happy holidaymakers, the next there had been no one except the odd drifter who was never heard from again.

None of the people they talked to could remember when it had happened, only that it had.

This, Castiel is sure, is the place they'd been talking about.

"Cas?" Dean calls, and Castiel turns to him, sees that Dean's eyebrows are tented and concerned. Perhaps he was supposed to respond to Dean's observations, but Castiel has nothing to say.

"I asked you a question," Dean prompts. Castiel hadn't heard any question. In the kitchenette Sam has stopped tormenting the appliances, and he looks at Castiel too.

"Dude," Sam frowns. "You seem kind of out of it."

"I don't like this place," Castiel shrugs, because it's true. He's finding it hard to concentrate on anything other than the beach and the wind and the rain and the sea, and that makes no sense at all. Focus has never been a problem for Castiel before; in fact, it could be said that single-minded focus had been the problem.

And now, after everything, his main concern should be Dean and Sam, but it's not. Maybe he's just tired. Maybe he needs to sleep, or eat, or one of the other myriad things he must do to live now that he is falling again. It's frustrating, and it's tedious, and Castiel turns back to the window, to the storm outside. Once, he had the power to calm hurricanes, or to create them. He could have brought the sun.

Castiel is almost startled by Dean's hand wrapping lightly around his upper arm, his first instinct to lash out, to take the wrist and snap it, to disable the threat. A human instinct or millennia of military training, Castiel can't decide. But it's Dean. Dean is no threat, and Castiel tries to relax his muscles. He lets Dean turn him around, lets Dean shake him gently by the shoulders.

"Cas, man, are you in there?"

"I am," Castiel assures him. It's impossible to miss the doubt in Dean's expression.

"You'll tell me if something's wrong, right?"

"Many things are wrong," Castiel points out.

Dean closes his eyes, opens them again.

"I mean specifically. Here. Like, if you – I don't know – sense something."

"It's cold," Castiel tries to explain. "This town and the people here. They're empty." They remind Castiel of Reapers, the dead, the tortured souls of Hell, not yet so far gone to forget pain but far enough that their skin is imbued with sulfur, and their eyes are no longer human.

"What could've done that?" Sam asks. He sounds cautious, unsure, and Castiel knows he is wondering if perhaps this was Castiel's doing. A god would have such power.

Much of that time is unclear to Castiel, half-remembered, unsequential and confused. Confusing. But Castiel is sure he would recognize his own hand, and this is not it.

"I don't know," he replies.

Sam nods and goes back to fighting with the coffee maker, apparently satisfied. It still amazes Castiel that after everything Sam believes him so easily, without question.

Dean draws his attention again, with a light touch to the back of Castiel's hand.

"Just concentrate on me," he grins, then more seriously, "We'll get out of here as soon as we can. I don't like how out of it you are."

Castiel doesn't like it either, but they are here for a reason. Every instinct tells him that something is happening here, in this small, forgotten town, something that connects all the disappearances they have come across over the past few days traveling and finding nothing, no evidence, no connections, no clues.

It was a relief to finally find something, to be able to _stop_. As much as Castiel appreciates Dean's love for his car and driving, it has been a tedious, confining trial for him. Slow. Repetitive. Enforcing the realization of his limitations now, because where once he could have flown within the space of thought, now he must preserve his strength for when _the shit hits the fan_ , as Dean says. And that means enduring hours spent in an enclosed space, the tedium of a never-ending road, the grating sound of a combustion engine, and the rumble of wheels on asphalt. He'll grow accustomed to it in time, he supposes.

To Dean, Castiel nods shortly. The failing light is casting strange shadows in the corners of the room, along the walls, like long fingers stretching out, reaching for them.

"You found somewhere safe to park your car," Castiel changes the subject.

The look Dean gives Castiel promises that this conversation isn't over, but he replies, "About as good as it's gonna get. She can take a little rain."

"A little rain?" Sam snorts. "My shoes were freaking swimming pools as soon as I stepped out the door. I'm not surprised the people in this town are all so damned miserable." He shakes his head. "I have no clue how we're going to find anything here."

With no means of research, no leads, no one who will speak to them, Castiel has to agree that Sam has a point.

"Maybe we can find a local newspaper," Dean suggests. "Or check out the local PD. There's gotta be something. We'll find it. We always do." Dean moves back to the bed, sitting down and leaning back to grab the remote. The television picture is grainy and the sound garbled. "We can start tomorrow. There's nothing we can do right now, so I'm taking the night off." He frowns at the television, leaning forward and surfing through the channels. Castiel has yet to discover what is so distracting about watching the television. He prefers to watch Dean, who argues with Sam about them never taking time off, and where they're going to eat the next day, and which channel they should turn to.

Outside, the rain continues to fall. The sea continues to churn, and something draws Castiel to _look_. It is an effort to keep his attention on Dean, and Castiel knows for certain that isn't right. He doesn't understand what it is he wants to see, or why he would ever want to look away from Dean.

"Cas," Dean says. "Come and sit down. You're making me nervous. Stupid fucking town. They don't even get cable."

Dean may have been joking about concentrating on him but that is exactly what Castiel does. He sits beside Dean, lets himself feel the warmth of his body, focuses on the brush of their hands, on the annoyance in Dean's eyes, in the soft, not-so-shy looks Dean shoots him.

Castiel accepts the coffee Sam makes him, a bitter, gritty drink that he forces himself to finish while he thinks longingly of Bobby Singer's more palatable brew. Sam shrugs apologetically at him as he settles himself on the other bed.

"You don't have to drink it," he says, but Castiel wants to, despite the taste. It's something Sam has made for him, and it's a distraction from the storm outside, which Castiel could almost swear is howling his name at him in the form of the moaning wind, screeching at him, _angry_. It reminds him of the fury of his brothers, their screams as he killed them. The coffee's warmth distracts Castiel from the chill that seems to seep into his body. Perhaps most importantly, it will allow Castiel to stay awake a little longer.

He tells Sam, "I don't mind it."

From the way Dean narrows his eyes, Castiel guesses he understands something of his motivations. But for once he makes no comment, and Castiel is grateful, because he knows that sooner or later he will have to sleep, and the reminder is never appreciated. He buries the thought in bad coffee, and Dean and Sam, and the chatter of the television, and ignores the creeping feeling of suffocation, of weight tying him down, of being trapped.

  


Castiel wakes suddenly, his eyes snapping open, his breath coming in heaving, stuttered gasps. There is sweat on his skin, and it's cold on his bare arms; it feels like rain as it rolls down his back. He shivers, concentrates on just breathing, on the feel of the scratchy sheets under him and wrapped around him. In the bed next to him Dean doesn't wake, and Castiel is glad for that. No matter how much Dean might deny it, he needs the sleep. Weeks, turning to months of dealing with Castiel and his endless, disturbed nights, and then of looking after Sam when he was so sick he could barely move, have gotten to Dean. Castiel sees it in the slow, weary way Dean wakes up every morning next to him, rubbing at bleary eyes. Somehow, he's always able to offer Castiel a smile, as though he's glad just for the fact that Castiel is still there.

It is a relief too that Castiel remembers nothing of the dream that woke him. There is only the lingering taste of salt in his mouth, and the memory of shadows and an icy coldness flowing through his veins. But that could just be some vague, subconscious awareness of the temperature of the room. Absently, Castiel wonders if perhaps he should have shared a bed with Dean after all. But Dean's exhaustion had bled out of his eyes, and Castiel had chivvied him into the other bed to sleep undisturbed, because there was too much noise in Castiel's head, too much _wrong_ with this motel and this town, with the storm outside that sounds more and more unnatural the longer it rages. Castiel gave Dean promises of _soon_ , and _when we're away from here_ , and thankfully Dean had understood.

The steady beat of the rain never alters, and the crashing of the waves is like a metronome, a sickening repetition of swell and fall.

In the morning, Castiel decides, he will tell Dean these things. He will tell Dean how, despite knowing that all of these things are not right, Castiel is still drawn to them, feels as if he could stay in this town always, wants to go to the beach, follow the line of the water, and walk and walk forever. He wonders if this is how the residents of the town feel, if this is why they stay in this dying community. Somehow Castiel knows that whatever wants him here is out there, waiting, on the beachfront.

Carefully, silently, Castiel slides out of his bed and pads over to the window, taking one last look back at Dean. The room is almost pitch black, the streetlights lined up along the road outside broken, bent, smashed. There is no moon but there is still enough angel in Castiel for him to see with eyes other than just that of a human. Dean's rest is peaceful. Whatever Dean is dreaming of, it must be good because he's smiling into the pillow. Castiel might find it in himself to be jealous if he didn't know how much Dean needed to have at least some restful sleep, how much he _deserves_ it. He smiles himself as he considers the possibility that Dean might be dreaming of the cabin in the Black Hills, of the hours spent pressed close, skin-to-skin, whispering to each other in the dark.

Like this, silent and still, Castiel can look all he wants. Dean is beautiful, both in his soul and in his body. His back curves into the mattress, the blankets pulled tightly around his shoulders. He breathes evenly, slowly, unconcerned. It is a fantasy, but Castiel would give almost anything for Dean to be this relaxed in his waking hours, for the lines of worry on his face to fade, for the weight of too much for too long to lift instead of being written in the hunched slope of his back. To take on the weight of the world, though, is as much a characteristic of Dean Winchester as his love for his brother or his need to save people.

It would be easy, Castiel thinks, to slide into bed beside Dean like he did in the cabin, and maybe, just for a little while, forget everything. The past. The future. Everything that's wrong between them. Everything that's wrong with the world; the supernatural too quiet except for these disappearances. These omens. But there are answers in the storm and the shadows that pull at Castiel, not so much curiosity as wanting to know if this – all the incidents they have been chasing these past weeks, all of the devastated faces of friends and relatives of the missing and the dead – are a result of Castiel's actions. If there is anything he can do to put it right.

He turns away, towards the window again, and it is like the loss of warmth. Suddenly everything is unfamiliar, as though Castiel had walked into a whole different room. Here he is alone.

There is a whispering that's more than the whistling of wind through cracks in the window frame, drafts under the door. And there is light; just a glimmer flickering in the distance, somewhere along the beachfront. Castiel can almost feel the heat of flames against the bare skin of his arms. The rain is still heavy and certainly any normal fire would've been put out almost instantly. He thinks he can hear it crackling, welcoming and familiar.

Without a second thought, Castiel flies, forgetting in that moment that flying is not as easy as it once was, forgetting in that moment that he is anything other than an Angel of the Lord. The sting of water being driven into his eyes, and the shocking cold of the surf covering his feet, the sudden exhaustion that fills him quickly reminds him. It's an exhaustion he has become too familiar with.

He stumbles in the wet sand, catching himself just in time to avoid falling face first onto the beach. He wouldn't want to ruin Dean's comfortable sweatpants, although Castiel can already feel the cold creep of water weighing down the fabric. His t-shirt is soaked, and he wonders what Dean will say when he returns. Perhaps he will have the strength to fix the clothes, but from the way his fingers and toes already ache from the cold, he doubts it.

How strange that he should worry about what Dean will think of his borrowed clothes when the shadows look almost solid here on the water's edge. When there is light, but it isn't warm. When Castiel can sense that there is someone behind him.

The voice that speaks is a woman's, silken yet still somehow sharp. She says, "I thought you'd come sooner."

Castiel doesn't recognize the voice so much as the strength and the anger behind it, but still he can't quite place it. Long ago, he thinks. He heard it long, long ago.

Turning slowly around, Castiel sees her, a veil covering her face, her long black dress caught up in the swirl and surge of the shallow tide around her feet like oil on the surface of water. The light comes from an aura of flame made up of green and yellow. A will-o'-the-wisp, humans used to call it, _foolish fire_. The oxidation of phosphine and methane, they say now.

  


Castiel finds himself saying, "I didn't remember this place." He still doesn't, but deep down, somehow, Castiel understands who this woman is and exactly what she is doing here. In the flickering ball of light he sees the past. He sees one of his brothers die.

"I suppose not," the woman says softly. She is entranced by the light even as she controls it, or at least tries to control it. Castiel knows well how impossible it is to impose even the strongest, most determined of wills upon nature. "I should have asked you to bring him back when you styled yourself divine." She sighs and steps back, her hands falling to her sides, defeated.

"I would have said no," Castiel tells her. He thinks he should be worried that he doesn't know what he's saying, but instead all he feels is detachment, like he's not really there. Like maybe he's still lying asleep back in that drab, pungent motel room.

"Why?" the woman demands. "He was your brother."

"It's not for me to resurrect the dead."

The woman laughs, and it's a cruel, sharp sound. She turns to him, and Castiel can see her eyes glimmering red. "Oh no. Not unless it's Dean Winchester, or one of those _he_ cares about, then it is _for you_. Then you'll do it. Time and time again. Hypocrite," she spits venomously.

Castiel can't deny it, so he doesn't even try. "It doesn't change the fact that you can't bring him back," he says instead.

There is anger, revenge, hate and age-old weariness, _loneliness_ , in her half-hidden eyes that Castiel finds he can't look away from. All of these things he's seen looking back at him, in the bathroom mirror, in windows, in his reflection on the surface of a lake, the sea, a bath, the film of water lingering on the uneven concrete of sidewalks after the rain.

"Perhaps not," she says, her voice a quiet undertone. "But I found something I know you'll be interested in."

When she looks up at Castiel her eyes are molten red, and suddenly he's not sure he wants to know what she has to say.

  


They eat breakfast in the only diner that's not boarded up. Sam takes one look at the exterior, dirty glass, peeling, ripped posters advertising boat trips around the harbor and the aquarium – from better times, Castiel guesses – and announces that they're all going to get food poisoning.

"You wouldn't want Cas to get sick, would you?" Sam demands of Dean, and he's only half teasing. It's probably not the best thing to say, because Dean is instantly inspecting Sam for signs of imminent illness.

"Do your coat up," Dean replies testily. "I wouldn't want him to starve, either."

Castiel can see in the way that Dean glances over at him that he's remembering when he had first brought Castiel back to Earth, when Castiel could splay a hand over his chest and feel the shape of every rib directly under his skin. He never felt hunger.

Now, too, Castiel would prefer not to eat, unsettled by his dreams and the shapes of shadows he catches out of the corner of his eye moving, straining for Dean and Sam, following them. He woke up suddenly with cold feet and the grittiness of sand between his teeth. There was a woman fading from his vision when his eyes snapped open. Of his dream, he remembers fire, which seems at odds with the rain and the storm they are currently hiding from beneath the awning of a closed-up gift shop across the street from the diner. There is a row of half-rotten dolls in the shop display, wearing ugly, frilly dresses and moldy, yellowed lace hats. Their eyes are black, gaping holes that Castiel imagines are _watching_ him. Staring at him. Castiel remembers eyes like that from Purgatory and has to force himself to look away, to bring himself back to the present. He is free. There is nothing keeping him here. Except where there is.

He awoke tired, as though he hadn't slept at all. And worse, with that lethargic, drained feeling of having used his Grace, of having taken to flight.

It was just a dream, Castiel tells himself dismissively. That is what Dean is always telling him.

Standing close beside him, close enough to feel Dean's hand touching the back of his, Dean is saying, "It's not like we have a choice."

Sam doesn't look pleased to be following Dean across the street, jackets pulled up over their heads to try and shield them from the rain, and into the diner. Silence falls the second Dean opens the door, and the three of them stand there in the doorway awkwardly. No one greets them. The entire population at the diner stares at them.

Shaking off his surprise, and the rain from his jacket, Dean smiles openly and says, "Hi. Could we get a booth?"

He's looking at a woman standing beside the counter at the back of the diner. She's maybe forty, but it's hard to tell. She has the same worn, weathered look of the man in the motel. Her eyes are narrowed, looking each one of them up and down, lingering on Castiel for so long that Dean steps in front of him, blocking her view.

"We'd really love some coffee," he tries again, and this time – reluctantly – the waitress points them to a table in the corner, throws menus down on the surface when they've seated themselves. The room is still quiet, though there's a quiet murmuring around them now. Castiel hears the other patrons saying, "Who are they?" and "What are they doing here?" and "Do they know?"

Sam leans over the table of their booth and whispers, "They're still looking at us."

"Yeah. I can feel their freaking eyes on the back of my neck," Dean hisses back. Sitting next to him, Castiel thinks he understands for the first time what the phrase means. It's a knowledge, innate to his human senses, of being watched, like icy needles pricking at the edge of conscious thought. Outside, along the sidewalk and across the dilapidated buildings across the street, shadows stretch and curve and inch closer towards them. Sometimes Castiel thinks he can see shapes in them, like arms and hands and faces.

Or perhaps he's just lost his mind.

Their coffee arrives, steaming and thick black. It smells good after the musty motel room, and Castiel drinks without bothering with milk or sugar, forgetting that hot coffee _burns_. Suddenly his throat is on fire, his tongue feels as though it's swelling to fill his mouth, and his eyes are watering. He can hear Dean saying, "Shit, Cas. Drink some water. Here, here."

A glass is pressed against his lips, and Castiel feels the coolness of it. He drinks so quickly he almost chokes, all to the chorus of Sam swearing, "Holy fuck," and Dean encouraging him to, "Drink more. Slowly, Cas. Jesus Christ."

It seems like a long time until Castiel can open his eyes again and breathe without pain lancing down his throat.

The first thing he notices is that Dean has one hand on his back and the other holding a large glass of water, and he's looking at Castiel like he expects him to do something dramatic at any moment. Sam is mopping up spilt coffee and water from the surface of the table.

It's amazing, Castiel thinks, how something so simple as hot coffee could cause so much pain.

"I hope we've learned a valuable lesson here," Dean says carefully. He's trying for light-hearted, but his voice cracks over the words.

Castiel takes another sip of water and focuses on Dean's touch instead. It is unusual for him to show affection in public, and Castiel finds he takes pleasure in this physical indication of their involvement. Opposite them Sam is smiling smugly.

"Shut up," Dean snaps. Castiel is certain he'll take the hand away but he doesn't, not even when the waitress finally returns to take their orders. All through the time they wait for their meals, and Dean complains about the bad service, and that his coffee is empty, and that this place gives him the creeps, he keeps his hand firmly on Castiel's back. If he didn't need his hand to eat, Castiel is sure he would have left it there for the entire time they were seated.

When they leave the diner, to more hushed murmuring and suspicious looks, Dean stays close.

  


There is no police department.

There is no town hall, or archive, or school, or post office, or official public office of any description.

"Over in the next town," is the grudgingly-given reply they get from everyone who answers their questions. There are few people out, and even fewer who will talk to them.

They traverse the town on foot, hurrying from doorway to awning but still the three of them end up soaked through and cold and shivering after no time at all.

The rain never lets up, a steady hissing in Castiel's ears as they press their backs against the saturated, damp wall of a wooden shack. They've taken to walking along the seafront because that's where most of the people in this town seem to be, working in dingy huts on repairing boats and engines that Dean had commented in a whisper looked like they hadn't been used in years. There is a jetty with a huddle of boats a little way down the beach that they're trying to gather the determination to head towards. The boats grate against each other, their bells ringing in the rough sea, an ominous sound against the howl of wind and in the absence of people. Castiel had never realized before how much noise humans make, with their cars and their loud voices.

  


The storm had been swelling, whipping itself up into an almost-frenzy, so that Castiel is sure that as soon as they step on to the boardwalk, leaving their meager shelter behind, they will be drowned in salt water. He can't decide if that would be better or worse than the rain.

Sam stands to his left, fidgeting in discomfort, but there is something more.

"Have you noticed how weird the rain is?" Sam asks. "It never changes."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I noticed. I thought I was imagining it, like, going crazy hearing nothing but fucking rain all the time."

"It isn't your imagination," Castiel tells him. "It can't be natural."

"You know what can do that?" Dean asks. "Control the weather like this?" After a pause he adds, "And why the fuck didn't you say anything if you knew there was something weird going on?"

Now that he considers it, Castiel isn't sure himself. "I don't know," he answers truthfully.

Dean scowls at him, but lets it go. "Anything else we should know about?"

Castiel thinks of strange dreams about fire in the rain, and loss, and being lost. He thinks of the shadows. Here, too, they curl around the jagged corners of the shack, crawl down from its roof.

Dean takes the pause as an admission.

"What is it?" he demands.

"The shadows," Castiel admits. He senses nothing from them. They're not alive, he's sure of it. Though sometimes he thinks he can _smell_ them. Castiel feels like a fool as he says, "They're following us."

"Shadows kinda do that," Dean snorts.

"Not our shadows," Castiel dismisses testily. "They're…" he gestures towards the roof, to the line of buildings behind them, " _there_."

Something in the way Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other tells Castiel that he doesn't quite believe him, that maybe he just thinks Castiel needs sleep or coffee, but he's listening. He sets his shoulders, a grim, determined expression on his face. "So we keep a look out for creepy shadows." He laughs without any humor. "Not like there isn't already enough creepy shit in this town."

Taking a deep breath, Dean casts a look Sam's way and nods. He grabs the arm of Castiel's jacket and tugs him out from their shelter. "Come on. Let's get this over with."

The boarded path that leads to the moorings is slippery under Castiel's feet, rotten in places so that the wood warps and creaks dangerously. They move fast, Dean trying to joke, "We should've brought umbrellas," but Sam shoots Dean an annoyed look in reply, and Castiel is too tired and too weighed down and _confined_ , within heavy jeans and layers of clothes, to care. He wishes he could just fly, or at least keep the rain from drenching him.

As they draw closer to the jetty, Castiel can feel spray from the sea being driven into his face by the wind. It reminds him of the dream he's been trying to remember all day, like an itch at the back of his mind trying to be noticed. It's important, he thinks. He knows it is.

For most of the way, Castiel has been looking at his feet, making sure he doesn't slip and fall, but as soon as he looks up he knows; he's been here before. He recognizes the arching shape of the waterfront as it curves around the bay. There is a spit of land behind them, distinct in its bleakness. The abandoned aquarium is an ugly concrete landmark that Castiel could never mistake.

In his long life Castiel has been to thousands, probably millions of places, but this is a different kind of memory. This isn't the memory of an angel, seeing everything and nothing all at once, hearing his brothers, feeling the love of Heaven. This memory is cold, painfully exhausted and half-human, what angel is left straining to escape the confines of a body it knows it won't survive outside of anymore. It was dark in the memory, but there was light, and—

—and there are fingers digging bruises into his arms. Someone is shaking him. Castiel blinks, and there is Dean peering at him, holding him close.

"Snap out of it," Dean is shouting. "Snap the fuck out of it!"

"What…" Castiel tries. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

"Thank fuck," Dean breathes. He stops shaking Castiel, but he doesn't loosen his grip. "What the hell just happened?"

"I was remembering...something." It's impossible to explain when Castiel isn't even sure himself what just happened. What he saw was more like a memory of this place that hasn't happened yet.

"I think it was the future," he says.

"Oh shit, no," Dean curses. He glances at his brother. "I had this shit with Sam. I am not doing it with you too."

The visions Sam had under the influence of the demon blood, Castiel remembers. He was told of all this before he was given the task of retrieving Dean from Hell. The memory of Zachariah telling the tale of the abomination Sam Winchester with every ounce of disdain his former superior could muster – and for Zachariah that was a lot of disdain – fills him with distaste. Back then it was with an odd, pitying horror that Castiel looked upon Sam.

Now Sam looks at Castiel with an understanding and a compassion much warmer than Castiel could have ever felt back then, before he came to know the Winchesters. Before he came to care for the Winchesters, no matter how irritating and overbearing they could be.

Like now, when Dean is holding Castiel as though he would fall over without his help.

"It's not the same," Castiel tries to assure him. "It's not a vision but...something that has already happened in the future." Castiel frowns at the limitations of human language.

Sam and Dean stare at him blankly.

"I've showed you the past," Castiel explains. "You couldn't change it. This is the same, but in the future."

"Is this some weird angel thing?" Dean asks cautiously.

Castiel shrugs, a gesture he likes for its ambiguity and the way it can be used to apparently reply to anything. As expected, Dean accepts this reply with a sigh, finally loosening his grip.

"We gotta move. Jesus, I've never hated the rain so damn much."

Dean turns his face up to the sky, and it is only then that Castiel remembers they are exposed to the wind and the rain. He can feel water dripping down his back, and the material of his shirt sticks to his arms and his chest. Nor had Castiel realized that Sam and Dean are standing close, sheltering him from the worst of the storm. The crashing sound is suddenly so deafening Castiel doesn't know how he can hear anything else.

The way the water runs down Dean's neck, how he blinks rain out of his eyes while heavy drops cling to his eyelashes, is distracting. Castiel knows he's staring but he can't look away, doesn't want to look away. He has learned to take what joy he can whenever he finds it, no matter how small a thing it is. And this sight Castiel likes very much.

Beside them, Sam coughs pointedly. "Guys. Seriously."

Dean's head snaps to his brother, to Castiel, and then back to Sam again. "Right. Yeah. Moving."

They pick up the pace, their steps less cautious on the slippery boardwalk. There is no guarantee they will find shelter among the boats tied to the jetty but it is the last place in town where there might be people who will speak with them and who might know something useful. It can be no coincidence that the first missing man they investigated was lost at sea. That Sam was pulled from the sea by _something_.

Ancient, worn-looking men watch them as they approach, offering no help or welcome. They are fishermen, fixing nets with such gaping tears that Castiel is certain it's an impossible task. One younger man, wearing torn, yellowed, wet-weather gear, stands listlessly gazing out into the storm. His eyes are glazed-over, vacant in a way that unsettles Castiel. Dean and Sam close ranks, moving closer together, bracketing Castiel.

Walking out onto the jetty, Castiel feels the power, the potential destructive force of the waves as they crash into the stilts that hold them above the water. They seem like such small, brittle things in the face of the storm around them. The smell of rotting, decay, damp and salt, fills Castiel's nose, so strong that he almost wants to choke. Beneath their feet, the jetty shudders, and the boats grind together, the screeching of metal on metal grating on Castiel's ears.

The first mooring they come to is empty. There is a severed rope hanging from a metal ring.

"Old rope," one of the sailors says, speaking in a raised voice long used to shouting over the sounds of the sea. He stands in a boat two moorings along, a scraped and dented rusting hulk. Across one side Castiel can just about make out the words _Traveler_ , the name almost faded away.

Dean turns to the man, all smiles despite the rain and the winds and the sea spray washing over them.

"I can see you only use the best." Dean gestures towards the twisted mess of half-rotting rope that holds the _Traveler_ to the mooring. It's a blatant lie, but the sailor doesn't react to Dean's comment. Up close now, Castiel counts seven other boats tied together. There is at least one man on each of them, openly watching the conversation.

"What do you want?" the sailor asks instead, ignoring Dean's prevaricating. "There's no way you're tourists."

Sam steps forward. "No. We're researching towns along the coast."

The man snorts.

"How the economy has affected the local fishing and tourist industries," Sam tries.

Someone behind them laughs, and it's not a friendly sound.

"We're doing fine," the man says shortly, and he begins to turn away as though this conversation is over.

Sam persists, "You used to take tourists out, right? What do you do to earn money now?"

Slowly, the man turns back to them and fixes Sam with a feral, calculating look that Castiel doesn't like.

"I used to. Still do," he says. "You boys looking for a trip?"

The thought of going out onto the waves of this vicious, unrelenting storm fills Castiel with a fear he is only just learning to recognize as a symptom of his current weakened state. Like this, he is much easier to kill. Like this, it is impossible for him to protect Dean and Sam as he had before: assured, with all the power and fury of an angel.

The thought of going out into this storm with this man, whose soul is dark and secretive and duplicitous, worries Castiel even more. But Sam glances at Dean, and Dean nods in agreement, and Castiel knows this is something he will have to endure.

  


"I know this is _ill-advised_ ," Dean says under his breath. He needn't bother, the combined noise of the sea crashing into the boat, the waves into each other, and the rain drumming against the roof, is loud enough that it's difficult for Castiel to hear him let alone their captain, who gleefully steers the boat from his cabin up front. "But we've kind of run out of any other options. I'm not exactly enjoying this myself."

Minutes after Dean and Sam had agreed on this excursion, minutes after the boat had fought its way out of the relative safety of the jetty, Dean had turned green and thrown up over the side. He still looks pale and unsteady, and Castiel keeps a light hold on his arm to help him stay upright but also because it seems to make Dean feel a little better.

"That man," Castiel insists, because Dean doesn't seem to understand how bad an idea this is. "His soul is _rotten_ , Dean."

For a long moment Dean looks at Castiel. "We can't really talk, Cas," he says pointedly.

Castiel shakes his head. "No. It's not the same." The more Castiel sees of the people of this town, the more he comes to suspect they're not entirely human any more. But he of all people knows that doesn't make them inherently bad. It's the secrets that surround this place; its insularity, the way it was only ever spoken of in hushed tones by those outside of its confines. That no one ever left this town. "He didn't ask us for any payment," Castiel tries. Just like the man at the motel, and Castiel knows well that everything comes with a price.

"It's just an hour," Dean decides, after another long considering pause. He turns his head to look towards where Sam is talking to their captain. "We're here now."

Beneath their feet, the deck lurches sharply, and Dean grabs hold of Castiel, both of them holding on tightly to the railings. The movement is so sharp that it wrenches Castiel's hand along the rope, and he feels the skin of his palm burning.

"Shit," Dean curses into his ear. "If I survive that long."

Dean looks as though he's close to vomiting again, so Castiel hurries him back to the side using the momentum of the boat's rolling to carry them.

"I kind of hate you and Sam right now," Dean grins through dry heaves. "How are you guys not feeling this?"

The boat lurches again, as though to emphasize his point. Castiel remembers the few episodes of _Doctor Sexy_ he's watched with Dean, and how in one scene a nurse held the hair of a patient, rubbing their back as they were sick. Castiel tries it now, hoping it helps. He sees Dean's lips twitch upwards. "I once heard," he tells Dean, "That if you look to the horizon you will feel less seasick."

Dean snorts. "Yeah. That would be great advice if these freaking giant waves didn't get in the way."

It's true that the sea does fill their vision, a huge expanse of unsettled movement. Spray washes across their faces as another wave crashes into the ship. It might be refreshing, Castiel thinks, if everything about this didn't feel so wrong. They've long since lost sight of land and it's disorienting to have no landmarks to navigate by, nothing but the open sea all around them. It makes Castiel think of being lost in the desert, not able to tell which way will lead somewhere and which way will lead to more emptiness. To nothing.

Castiel buries his chin into the neck of his jacket, seeking warmth. He tries to remember what it was like to be _dry_.

Leaning heavily against the railings, Dean breathes deeply, his eyes closed.

"Why do people do this?" Castiel asks, curious and in an attempt to distract Dean from his discomfort.

"Do what?" Dean doesn't open his eyes, holds himself carefully still. Castiel continues to rub circles on his back, and Dean leans into the touch.

"Go out on boats. Is this supposed to be a fun experience?" Castiel is certainly not enjoying it.

"Usually," Dean shakes his head, "people aren't crazy enough to go out in weather like this." He wipes water from his eyes. They're standing beneath an awning, technically out of the rain, but the wind, and the pitch and yaw of the boat means that half the time it's doing nothing to shelter them at all. "In the summer, if the sea is calm, it's supposed to be relaxing. You can see fish or whales or something."

"I see," Castiel says.

"No you don't," Dean laughs quietly. And no, Castiel really doesn't. "I don't get it either," Dean admits. "But it's not like me and Sam are normal people, so what do I know."

Castiel thinks that Dean knows a lot more than he does but he remains silent and concentrates instead on the rocking motion, on the bland wash of gray sky, the rain pouring down around them, on them, splashing water on water as it falls into the sea. The ocean is a dark swelling mass filled with shapes and so many shades of colorlessness, and it is then that Castiel sees it: shadows beneath them, all around them, creeping up towards the boat, rising to the surface.

Dean is saying, "We should go see if Sam is okay," when Castiel cuts in.

"Dean, look…" He points to the sea behind them that grows darker and darker with every passing second. There is something under there, something coming for them, and Castiel doesn't know what it is. He can feel its malevolence. It wants something. It wants life. It wants form and freedom.

It's so close, and there's nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide.

"What the fuck?" Dean's eyes are wide as they follow the dark smudge. It expands, spreading out, increasingly more solid so that it causes its own waves and eddies in the sea. Around it the storm rages, but whatever this thing is it doesn't care. "This is what you meant?" Dean asks urgently. "By shadows?"

"They weren't like this. They weren't so—" Huge. Terrifying. _Evil_. Castiel almost wants to choke on the sense of pure primordial _badness_ that fills him, making his head pound harder with every inch the thing gains. He can't think of a word to describe it, something that covers the debasement of this thing, how it is everything Heaven isn't, everything _Dean_ isn't. Instead Castiel says, "We must go and get Sam."

Castiel is under no illusions that their captain is an innocent party in this.

The boat lurches again, but this time it feels different; more like hitting rock than wave. Water rushes across the deck, and Castiel loses his balance, falling onto Dean. They both tumble over, Dean making a punched-out sound as Castiel lands on him heavily. He tries to push himself upright, off of Dean, but Dean grabs hold of him as water pours over them and the world beneath them sways sickeningly. Castiel hopes that Sam is okay.

Then Castiel can hear them, whatever they are, speaking in his head. At first it's just a low rumbling, like chanting in the back of his mind, but it quickly becomes louder, faster, until it hurts to hear. Castiel tries to cover his ears, but it doesn't help. Of course it doesn't help. The words are not physical things. They're like prayers, but dark, hateful things that Castiel can't make out. He speaks thousands and thousands of languages, but this he doesn't understand. They sound like old magic; older even than him. Older than any of the angels. Something about it sounds familiar though. There is a memory of Purgatory when he heard it that Castiel shies away from, not wanting to recall the sound. There was nothing in Purgatory that he wanted to remember. Shadows and sharp pain fill that place, and now it fills this world too, creeping up over the rails, crawling across the deck towards them. He's soaking wet, and Dean is dragging him towards the center of the boat, where there is a small area sheltered with thin bulkheads. Castiel's head pounds, and there is red in his eyes.

"Cas." Dean pulls him close, cradling his neck. "Dude. Keep your eyes open, okay?"

Castiel blinks, confused as to why he's laying on the floor and why Dean is peering at him with that focused, critical look. He blinks and wipes liquid out of his eyes, feels warm, thick blood there, sees it staining his hand when he pulls it away. Rivulets curl into patterns across his wet palm.

"You hit your head," Dean explains.

That explains why his head hurts. Castiel hisses when Dean presses the sleeve of his jacket just above his eyebrow.

"The shadows," Dean goes on anxiously. He's agitated, eyes darting around them. "You know what happens if they touch us?"

Instinctively Dean has realized the danger of them. Their dark shapes slide over the edges of the boat, long, shadowy tentacles that slink across the deck, joining together so that the area all around them looks as though it's been painted black. The darkness undulates like the sea, somewhere between real and unreal so that it is both solid and transparent at the same time.

Castiel knows it wants them – that is has an awareness and a purpose, just as it has a language – but he doesn't know what for. He doesn't know if it wants them _alive_. "Nothing good," he answers truthfully. They need to get out of here. They need to get to Sam. Castiel can see Dean's attention stray towards the front of the boat, where they both know Sam is with the captain.

Dean must be thinking the same thing because he asks, "You think that bastard called them here?"

There's no mistaking who he's referring to.

"I don't think he needed to. The – _shadows_ – they were always here."

From the way Dean screws his face up into an unhappy frown, Castiel can see that he has a lot more questions he wants to ask, but the shapes are closing in on them. The walls around them won't keep them out. Something in the language, in that half-remembered memory from Purgatory, tells Castiel that these things are ancient. He can think of no spell that might deter them.

They are trapped, Castiel realizes. There is no way to get to the front of the boat without stepping over the shadows, and Castiel is certain that would not end well. With every passing second the shadows become darker, less opaque. They're becoming real, solid things, and with their newfound physicality they whip against the side of the boat, against the walls of the small cabin, beating to the rhythm of the waves and the rain. It is their storm, Castiel realizes. They _are_ the storm.

The boat rocks wildly to the left, and they are knocked over again.

"Fuck," Dean swears, gripping desperately at Castiel's arms, and Castiel thinks that he sounds like he might be sick again. With all of this tilting and rolling, Castiel is beginning to understand Dean's dislike of the motion.

"We're gonna have to make a run for it," Dean decides, righting himself and pressing them both back against the back wall of the small room. Water runs across the deck, ice-cold as it seeps into Castiel's already waterlogged clothes. "We're sitting ducks here."

There is, as Castiel can see it, only one way to Sam, and only one way off of this boat, and he just hopes he has the strength for it, conscious that he already feels drained and aware that it's only going to get worse. His muscles pull and ache from the cold and the strain, he feels dizzy, his head is stinging, and every few minutes he has to blink bloody water from his eyes.

"I will take us," he announces, and he doesn't give Dean the chance to form the protest he knows is coming.

It should be easy. It's the tiniest of flights, so brief he barely needs to stretch his wings, but they feel weighed down, as though they too have become waterlogged, and Castiel struggles to find lift, to take Dean those few steps to Sam. There's something pulling him down, something more than exhaustion. It feels like hands, arms, tightening around him, squeezing at his Grace. The touch of it – the evil, foul-smelling taste of it – makes Castiel gasp, surprised by how _cold_ it is, and in that second he loses control; he is dragged down so suddenly and so fast that he almost loses his grip on Dean.

In this form – more angel than human and more ether than element – Castiel can see the extent of the shadows, stretched out across the sea, long arms embracing the town, delving deep into the ocean. There is fire along the beach, a place that is out of sync with everything that surrounds it, tiny points that are holes between time and existence. And Castiel remembers that this is where he was last night, that it was both dream and reality, because in those liminal spaces between worlds there is no difference.

Castiel has no time to consider what any of this means because right then he is being torn from the sky and thrown into the depths of the ocean, to where the shadows are most concentrated. They whisper to him, telling him they will devour him, because they were the First, and they are more powerful than any child of God could hope to be, that he is a young, weak thing they will tear to pieces, that they will offer his wings to their Master as tributes.

As water envelopes him, closing over him, Castiel is aware that Dean won't survive long like this. Already, in his arms, wrapped in what strength he can spare, he feels Dean choking, instinctively fighting his hold in an effort to find air. Castiel tries to calm him but there's no time, and he can't spare the effort.

Dean fights, and Castiel doesn't think he remembers a time when he fought this hard – when he _had_ to fight this hard – just to fly.

The touch of the shadows burns against his form and Castiel struggles, drawing his sword and slashing out at anything around him. He cuts through heavy sea and cruel shadow, and is relieved when his sword hurts it, makes it recoil from the bite of his blade. Castiel takes the opportunity to escape their grip, loosened in surprise, flying with every scrap of power he can muster out of the sea, to the world above, to the boat.

He doesn't think, just heads for Sam, whose soul shines almost as familiarly as Dean's now, and he crash lands into the front cabin, knocking everyone to the deck. Lying on the weathered wood – again – Castiel is vaguely aware of Dean coughing in his arms, and of Sam climbing to his feet.

Sam launches himself at the captain, and in that second – less with his human vision than what is angel in him – Castiel sees the captain more clearly, as he truly is: hollow-eyed, decaying, long since emptied of any humanity. It's impossible to know how long ago this man became so corrupted, but it must have been years, perhaps decades. Castiel can't help but think that the entire population of the town must be like this, little more than the walking dead.

_Like you_ , the hissing voices that fill the rain-saturated air taunt.

Castiel ignores them, no matter how true part of him thinks they might be, because Sam is grappling with a creature that oozes shadows and corruption and he _shouldn't be touching it_.

The captain has Sam by the neck, pushing him with inhuman strength towards the edge of the boat and the black oil-like, hungry, grasping mass that the sea around the boat has become. Not wanting to distract Sam from the fight, Castiel doesn't call to his friend, just decides to take matters into his own hands. They're surrounded, the solidifying shadows encroaching on every bare surface of the boat, filling every space with nothingness. They're not getting out of this any other way than by flight, no matter how unlikely it is that Castiel has the strength to carry both brothers when his wings already feel like leaden weights, when even the thought of flexing them is agony. But he has to try.

Castiel hauls Dean to his feet, still coughing and unsteady, but he goes willingly where Castiel drags him; away from the blackness swarming at the feet, as best he can towards Sam.

Closing his eyes, taking a breath, Castiel tightens his hold on Dean and shifts his weight. He won't have much time, and he knows from before that the shadows are fast and strong and could easily drag them all down if he doesn't get this right. It's easier, he decides, not to think.

He moves.

In the instant between the captain pulling back to throw a punch and Sam pushing him away, Castiel lunges forward, half in flight and half on foot, and grabs onto Sam. With Dean held in his other hand, he flies, straight upwards, for as long and as fast as he can. He passes above the clouds, and for a brief moment of relief there is no rain bearing down on him, just the clean crispness of empty air. And then Castiel feels himself start to fall.

Unable to continue, Dean and Sam too heavy to carry, Castiel looks desperately for somewhere safe to land them. He had hoped for Dean's car, perhaps Bobby's at a stretch, but all he can see are the lights of the town burning a strange orange-green. In his downward plummet, it's all Castiel can see, the only direction he has.

He doesn't make it, plunging instead into the sea a little way from the shore. For the second time in minutes, he finds himself submerged in freezing seawater – but this time he is human, not angel. This time the water fills his own lungs, and the currents pull him down. Castiel thinks he might drown, but there are hands on him, pulling him up.

The surface. Air. Castiel chokes as waves rush into his face, but Dean has an arm around him and he's swimming, fighting against the storm battering at them.

Castiel, exhausted from flight and almost delirious with it, lets himself be pulled along.

They haven't been swallowed by the shadows, Castiel thinks. Not yet.

  


Washed up on the shore, coughing up water until it hurts Castiel's lungs, they can't stop and rest.

The shadows reach for them, no longer shadows but long tentacled masses of slick, dark skin, bodies stretched and twisted and wound together with empty sockets where eyes should be. Pulling at each other, holding each other up as their legs give way from exhaustion, and with their muscles locked by the cold, somehow Castiel, Dean, and Sam move, keep moving, despite their heavy, sopping clothes that slap around their legs as they part-run, part-stumble towards the light. The fire.

In his dream, Castiel remembers they were important. He remembers a woman wrapped in the night, taking comfort from the light.

"It's not the town," Sam says pulling Castiel more firmly against his side. Sam coughs, and Dean shoots him a worried look that Sam pointedly ignores.

Castiel's head feels as filled with dark, choking water as his lungs, and he too hopes that all this cold and water doesn't bring back Sam's illness.

"No," Castiel says.

It's strange but Castiel sees Heaven in the fire, can hear the song of his brothers, of home. He quickens the pace, not to escape the shadows still chasing them, but to hear better. He'd forgotten how beautiful, how joyous it could be. He hadn't realized how much he has missed it.

The closer they draw to the fire, its flames licking green, casting no shadows across the wet sand, the more Castiel can feel the warmth of Heaven, how it embraces him. Here, he thinks, he can almost touch it. But as he draws closer he sees that's not the only place he can see. Just as that night on the beach when he thinks he saw the past, now Castiel can see Hell; the agony of that place on the purity he had then, when he cradled Dean's broken soul to himself and clawed and fought his way back to the Earth. He can see Purgatory too, and it is pain, and restraint, and torture. He has to look away because it hurts to look at Heaven, to remember what he once was and what he became, to see those endless days in Purgatory again. Castiel wants to relive none of it, and yet it's hard to look away; it's fascinating somehow. It draws Castiel closer, Dean and Sam at his side, and he wonders vaguely what it is they see.

The flames are warm – as warm as Hell – and it's a relief to no longer feel the rain and the cold of waterlogged clothes against thin, weak human skin. There is a whispering, growing louder and louder, in that language that Castiel can't understand but can feel in his Grace is magic and evil and powerful, and older than even the angels. Shadows fill the edges of his vision and Castiel knows he should fight it, that it's going to devour him, but he doesn't think he has the strength to stop it. He isn't sure he even wants to.

Since returning to Earth, all he has been is a drain on Dean. All he's been is awkward and ill and weak. He can't protect anyone like this. If he can't even save himself, what use is he to anyone else?

Beside him Dean grips tightly to Castiel's arm. Dean's distressed repetition of, "No, no, no, no," cuts through the song of his brothers and the roar of the sea and the dull echoes of Purgatory. It is automatic the way Castiel turns to look at Dean, to try and find the cause of his distress and to put it right. What he sees is fear. What he sees is Dean full of self-loathing and hopelessness and anger. He sees Hell, Castiel realizes. Dean sees Hell in the fire that burns before them on a beach half-flooded by the sea and the rain, without fuel or reason.

Suddenly he understands what this is.

And Sam.

The horrific realization of what Sam could be seeing hits Castiel, and he becomes aware in that instant that Sam is no longer there at his side.

Castiel looks around wildly, his stomach plummeting strangely, sickly, to see Sam a little way down the beach behind them, on his knees in the tide and the sand. He's crying, and it's a reedy, terrible, desperate sound.

Many times Castiel has regretted with all his being what he did to Sam, but none more than this moment, when he can see for himself the outcome of his actions. He has to stop this.

Turning back to Dean, he shakes his arm to try and get his attention. When that doesn't work he calls Dean's name, but Dean continues to stare at the green flames, transfixed.

"Dean," Castiel calls again, and if this doesn't get Dean's attention then nothing will. "Sam needs you," he says.

It works.

Dean's head snaps up, and he blinks his fearful, tear-stained eyes furiously.

"Sammy?"

He sounds confused, like he's not sure where he is or how he got here.

"Yes," Castiel urges. "Your brother needs you. This way."

Castiel pulls at Dean's arm urgently, dragging him back the way they came to fall at Sam's side.

The sight of his brother like this – in pain, his eyes blotchy and red from crying and filled with terror, and loathing, and despair – brings Dean instantly back to himself. It's instinctual, Castiel thinks, how he moves closer to Sam, putting his hands on his brother's shoulders and shaking him.

"Come on, man," Dean says, and Castiel isn't surprised by the gentle tone he uses. "Tell me what's wrong."

When he gets no reply, no reaction at all from Sam, Dean turns to Castiel.

"What's wrong with him?" Dean frowns. "Just now I was seeing Hell." Glancing back to the unnatural fire, then to his brother, Castiel can see the moment when Dean realizes exactly where his brother is. "Oh fuck, no," he spits. "He just got over this shit. This is not happening."

Crouched there on the beach, in the rain and the sand, Dean shakes his brother again.

"You're not there," Dean tells him. "I know it's shitty. You're not there."

There is one last thing Castiel knows will keep both Sam and Dean from the images in the fire for certain. Even at his most powerful, as a full angel with the power of Heaven behind him, Castiel doesn't think he'd be able to put the fire out. They are ancient things, pathways, tears between worlds that have existed since before the time of men or even angels. But this should keep the roads they are seeing to places they have been in check, a barrier.

Castiel is even fairly certain he can survive it.

Running towards the fire is a test of endurance, water swelling around his legs creating resistance as though it knows what he means to do. The rain suddenly beats down on him with such ferocity that Castiel can feel every drop like a needle pushed against his skin. It blinds him, but he doesn't need eyes to see it.

Panting, choking, and drowning, when Castiel reaches out to hold it the fire flickers and burns at his fingers so that he can smell burning flesh. It is an illusion, he tells himself, even though he's not certain that's true.

It resists as he pulls it close, fights him as he takes it into himself, tries to pull him into Purgatory or Heaven or both at the same time. But Castiel will protect Dean and Sam. He might be weak, half-human and _tired_ , but this he can do.

With everything that he is, Castiel swallows down the fire.

  


Finding himself shaken awake by Dean is becoming a disturbingly common occurrence, and Castiel really just wishes he would leave him alone. He's almost comfortable. There is something soft under him, something warm wrapped around him. If it wasn't for the shaking Castiel would say the something wrapped around him was Dean.

But there are too many things that feel wrong.

Whatever is holding onto him is holding so tightly it hurts. He's sliding, he realizes. Moving. Sam is there, too – Castiel can hear his voice calling to him – pulling at his arm. Dean shifts, and suddenly there's water pouring down onto his face, shocking him awake.

Dean is shouting at Sam, "Try the knife!" and Sam is shouting back, "If I let him go we'll lose him!"

"We will not." Dean is gritting his teeth, straining, arms around Castiel's upper body. Looking down, Castiel sees that it's the shadows that are wrapped around his legs, and they're pulling him into the water. They're already in the shallows, water rushing in and out under his back. "I got him!" Dean insists.

"My sword," Castiel tells them. It hurts to talk, his throat burning and dry despite the torrents of rain and seawater.

Dean's eyes are immediately on him and he's growling, "I am gonna bust your ass, Cas, I fucking swear."

Castiel doubts that, but there is no time to argue. He draws his sword and pushes it into Dean's hands. No words are needed, and with a nod Dean is on his feet, slashing at the arms of shadows that trail from Castiel's boots all the way down to the sea. The whole waterfront is imbued with the darkness now, more shadow-creature than sea.

Castiel's stomach burns, tries to push and rip him apart, and he understands: this is where these things are coming from. This is how they took over this town and drowned it in decay and darkness.

Will-o'-the-wisps were paths. The humans of long ago had known this, had warned of them in stories and legends, because the fires always led travelers astray, to the darkest places their minds could imagine, never to be seen again.

But roads go both ways.

Dean slashes viciously at the shadow arms, stabs at them relentlessly when they try to slap Castiel's sword from his hand or try to grab at him. Unable to do anything but lie there on his back, his hands and feet cold and his stomach on fire and pulled apart from both ends, Castiel watches. A life as a hunter fighting things more powerful than him has given Dean almost unmatchable instincts for when to move, when to stay still, when to lash out. He moves with a fluid grace that is impressive, and Castiel imagines that if he weren't being torn in half, devoured from the inside, drowned and freezing to death, he could watch Dean like this for an eternity. Dean is nothing if not efficient though, and Castiel is relieved when the tension pulling at his legs, the tight grasping arms entwined around him, begin to lessen so that he can breathe again.

More try to grab at him just as they try to grab at Dean and Sam, but Dean forces them back, slashing almost wildly now, shouting and swearing at the shadows to _fuck off back to where they came from_.

The sea swells around them again, recedes, and the next time it swells the water is deep enough to cover Castiel's face. He chokes in water, feels it burn its way down his nose.

The sea is _theirs_ after all.

Sam lifts Castiel up and yanks, yelling at Dean to _hurry up_ because they aren't going to win this fight. They _need to get the hell away_.

Away from the sea. Away from this town. That is about the only way they are going to fully escape, Castiel thinks, but is too busy coughing up water to speak.

Castiel wouldn't have thought it was possible, but Dean fights even more furiously, until finally he snaps free, falling back into Sam as the last of the arms that tether him are suddenly cut. Sam pulls Castiel instantly to his feet, and the three of them are running up the beach away from the seafront before Castiel can even think that his legs are like ice, that every muscle, pulled and stretched and squeezed, protests the movement.

They're running, Castiel notes, towards the town. The fire he has bound in his stomach and his Grace pulls at him, happy to seek out its companions there. They will find warmth and shelter there, it urges. But no, Castiel realizes. It's not the fire at all. It's the shadows pushing through into this world. Already they seep through the gaps in the space Castiel has created in himself to hold the fire and its paths.

"Not that way," Castiel insists, slipping on the wet sand as he tries to steer the brothers away from the abandoned houses and shops. They can't hide there. The shadows fill the town, have filled the town for so long that they imbue the bricks and the timbers of the buildings themselves.

He should have seen it before, Castiel chastises himself. He should have _known_. Then they wouldn't be in this position, half-drowned and exhausted, with Sam coughing horribly on one side of him, his eyes glazed as though he were in shock, and Dean on his other side radiating anger and frustration and pulling both Castiel and Sam along.

Regret, though, is a pointless, selfish exercise, and they have no time for it.

At the end of the harbor there is the old aquarium. Castiel remembers seeing it in his dream of the beach, and the fire, and the woman in black. No one ever goes there, hasn't been there in years. There has been no life there in many years, and Castiel can only assume there will be no shadows there. There would be no reason for them to be there, with no one to inhabit and control.

It is to the aquarium that Castiel now heads. It won't be warm but it will offer some relief from the rain and hopefully some time to _think_. Since arriving in the town, Castiel feels as though all the three of them have been doing is running from one place to another without a plan or a method, simply reacting. They need to think of a way to stop these things. Castiel needs to think of a way to remove them from within himself before he too becomes like the captain of the boat: the walking dead. An empty vessel for a creature of such ancient evil that it makes Castiel gag.

The irony of becoming a vessel does not escape him.

Castiel doesn't look back. He keeps his eyes trained on the turnstiles and smashed glass doors he can see as they run closer. It shouldn't feel like so far, but Castiel is just so tired, and everything feels so heavy, and he could so easily just lie down in the sand and let the shadows overtake him. His steps falter, and he stumbles, but Dean is there to hold him up, telling him to _keep going, dammit_.

Puddles of water have formed in the cracked concrete that forms the path up from the beach to the aquarium, and they splash through them. They're so soaked already, more water really doesn't make any difference.

Along the path there are fragments of broken glass from the lamps that once lined the walkway. There are abandoned chairs, rusting coils of wire, dumped trash, and they have to wind their way around it. They go around the turnstiles wordlessly, none of them having the strength to climb over them.

Above the door there is a faded, rotting sign with child-like paintings of octopuses and fish. Their dull eyes stare back at Castiel, and he shudders. Glass and debris crunch under his heavy boots as they pass under the sign. It casts dark, ominous shadows that all three of them inch their way around.

Under cover and out of the rain for the first time in hours – or at least, that's how long it feels like – the hissing in Castiel's ears and the steady pounding of water against his face are suddenly gone. His skin tingles with the memory of it, a buzzing in his ears at the sudden quiet.

There's no light at all inside the building, and Castiel realizes that Dean and Sam probably can't see a thing.

The thought is confirmed when Dean whispers, "If there's a massive gaping hole in the floor, you can tell us, right?"

"I can," Castiel tells him. He doesn't whisper back. There's no point. It's impossible to hide from shadows.

So Castiel leads them through the main entrance hall, around upturned tables and smashed displays, seeking out a smaller space that might be warmer. There is writing scrawled on the walls, curved, long symbols that cover photographs of the ocean, and of divers, and of sea creatures. Castiel can't read it, but just looking at the shapes it forms invokes images of the long-forgotten creatures that once reigned over the Earth. These were creatures the angels always considered abominations and would never speak of. They shouldn't exist, and yet his stomach aches for them.

He has to look away, concentrates instead on Dean and Sam.

There is a small side office that Castiel spots in a back corner, and he makes his way there, thankful that there are no symbols smeared across the walls here.

Inside smells of rotting fabric. An old computer sits on a table against the wall beside a lamp. There is no window, but there is damp on the floor. They collapse on to it anyway and sit, tangled in each other, just breathing.

It doesn't take long before Dean is demanding to know, "What the hell did you do?"

Castiel doesn't bother to pretend he doesn't know what Dean's talking about.

"I—" It's difficult to think of a word which won't anger Dean any more than he already is. "Took the fire into myself."

"Just like that?" Dean presses. "No side effects?"

There are side effects: Castiel can feel the shadows ripping at his insides, trying to break free. He can hear them, and they tempt and they threaten, and they are relentless.

"It is a path," Castiel replies instead. "A road to different worlds."

"Then what I saw was real." Dean reaches across Castiel to find Sam, to pat him down and check he's there and okay for himself.

"The past," Castiel explains. "That's what we saw."

"Jesus. Sam. Dude. Are you okay?"

Sam has been too quiet, too passive, and Castiel knows that Dean is right to worry.

"I'm," Sam manages. "I'll be fine. I think. It was just the past?" He laughs feebly. "Nothing I haven't seen before, right?"

"Sam," Dean warns.

"No, really," Sam says, swallowing hard. "It was just kind of a shock. It sucked. It sucks. But we have other things to worry about right now."

Dean doesn't argue with that. He turns his attention back to Castiel, examining him closely.

"It's hurting you," he says, eyes dark.

"Yes," Castiel confirms.

"Will it kill you?"

It will take this body and use it as its own, but Castiel as Dean knows him will be gone. Castiel doesn't believe the difference will be of any interest to Dean, so he nods, "Yes."

Dean doesn't look surprised or upset, but more disappointed. His look says, _Didn't we say we wouldn't do this anymore?_

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Castiel admits, and Dean shakes his head and holds on to Castiel's upper arm too tightly.

On reflection, Castiel realizes, he might have made things worse. Whatever this thing is, he's certain it was using the fire, the will-o'-the-wisp, the St. Elmo's fire – whatever name it uses – to find a way through to this world. For what purpose Castiel can't determine, even with a hundred voices in his mind telling him of power and rightful masters and the beauty of death and chaos. Now it has him, entwined in what power he has left, and Castiel has given it that power. And knowledge. Castiel can feel the consciousness of the shadows chipping away at his memories, at everything he knows of Hell and Earth and Heaven. It won't take long for them to take it all from him.

"So take it out," Dean argues. "I dunno – regurgitate it or whatever."

"It isn't that simple," Castiel says regretfully.

Dean snorts. "It never is."

Even though they're inside, cosseted within concrete walls, they can still hear the rain and the wind and the storm. It's getting worse.

"What can we do?" Dean asks, and then desperately, "There's gotta be something we can do, Cas."

Castiel can think of sixteen ways he can end this; fifteen of them result in his death. Dean will never accept that. Now it comes to it, Castiel thinks that he doesn't want to accept that either.

After everything that has happened, all the suffering and the pain and the struggle, Castiel has found a life worth living. Something worth not just living for, but fighting for. It is a relief, he thinks, to finally have found a reason for his existence again.

The sixteenth way: to call for help.

He tells Dean, "There is something we can do."

  


There was a voice in his dream that Castiel recognized.

It wasn't the whispering of the shadows or the anger of the storm. It was a voice he had heard a long time ago between wars, called to subdue the old gods who refused to bow to their Father.

Remembering it now, Castiel wonders if their Father even cared back then, or if it was just another order given by Zachariah, obsessed with his own power and domination.

Castiel doesn't know how he hadn't realized it before. They had talked of Gabriel. Through the fire, Castiel had watched his brother die and through the heavy veil around her face Castiel had seen molten tears.

In his own blood Castiel draws the summoning spell on the cracked, damp floor. He calls her name.

"Kali. Fearsome one. Darkest night. I beg for your help."

It is the first time in his life Castiel has ever begged for anything, but if he saves the three of them – and this town – then Castiel is willing to do it. If it stops the shadows breaking through into this world, then Castiel can swallow what little pride he has. He doesn't have the strength to close the paths, but he is certain Kali does. She is still worshiped and loved and feared, and even if she weren't, Castiel can never forget how she fought the armies of Heaven. Relentless. Ferocious. Merciless. _Gleeful_.

Nothing happens.

He spills more blood. Kali, he thinks, would appreciate that even if Dean growls where he crouches down beside him.

"Are you sure about this?" Sam asks cautiously.

Castiel is certain that Kali was the one in his dream, that she knows something of what is going on in this town, and that she can stop it. The only thing he's unsure of is if she will help them.

He calls her again, " _Krishanu, Kalamata, Kalakarshinii, Kripamayi_ ," and Castiel will call every single one of her Hundred Names if he has to. He knows them all, and others too, secret names not given to her by Man but taken from her by the angels long ago. He tries, "Kalakantaka-ghatini" – _She Who Destroys the Fear of Death_ – and then he feels it: heat on his face, the smell of burning paper, blood, incense, and clove and cinnamon. The room suddenly feels hot, filled with power and magic, the walls alight with flame.

"Alright, alright, I can hear you," Kali spits. She stands in front of them, tall and imposing. The veil she wore before is gone, revealing her sharp teeth and dark, old eyes, but the black dress remains. It is mourning, Castiel realizes. She is in mourning for an angel who once would have faced her across the battlefield. But then, this is Kali, warrioress, destroyer, reveler in blood and conflict. Perhaps that was what she loved most about Gabriel – that he could hold his own against her.

Castiel rises to his feet, Dean and Sam rising with him.

"And I see," she says slowly, looking directly at Castiel, a cruel smile on her lips, "why you called me."

Castiel says nothing, because he knows that nothing he can say will convince her.

"What will you offer me?" she asks. The heat and the light in the room intensify, as though she is excited by the prospect.

It doesn't escape Castiel's notice that Sam shifts uncomfortably beside him.

Dean steps in front of Castiel defiantly. "Nothing," he snarls. "We're not dealing."

Kali laughs, and it is cold and sharp. "No? Then why do you expect me to help _you_?" she sneers.

"Because Gabriel did," Castiel says. It is all he has to offer. It's not much, but Kali's eyes flash in irritation.

"I have already repaid my debt to him." What she's referring to Castiel isn't sure, but she crosses her arms and seems to draw into herself. And Castiel sees it again, what he saw that night on the beach that may or may not have been a dream; he sees Kali's loneliness. Her sadness. It's strange to think that she could love an angel after all the conflict between their kinds. But then, Castiel loves Dean. What he is means nothing in comparison to _who_ he is.

There is pain then, clawing at him from his Grace and his stomach, and Castiel doubles over, fighting to keep the shadows from destroying him, from gaining more ground when they already fill the seas around this town, and the people that live here, and every inch of darkness around the aquarium. Castiel can feel them closing in, creeping in through the doors and the windows, spreading out across the cracked floor towards them. The shadows within him call to their cousins outside.

"Help him!" Dean yells. He has a hand on Castiel's back, another around his waist holding him up. It's agony, and Castiel wants to rip his own stomach out just to save himself the pain of it.

It's hard to see like this, hard to see through the gray-black that seeps into the edges of his vision, but Kali stands tall and proud, watching him curiously. Impassively.

"Please!" Sam pleads more softly. "You've helped humans before, I _know_ you have. These things – these shadows – they're _evil_. You know that."

She nods, considering. "I know it."

With Dean's help, swallowing back bile, Castiel stands upright, faces Kali.

"You have to put it out," he tells her.

"I can put it out with your blood, little angel," she snarls in reply.

"If you must," Castiel says. Dean makes a sound of angry protest, and Castiel squeezes his wrist to quiet him. "But you can't bring him back like this," he goes on more quietly.

She narrows her eyes at Castiel, her gaze almost burning him until she relents, looks away, and that pall of sadness returns. "You mean I can't bring him back at all."

Castiel thinks of his own resurrection – _resurrections_ – and tells her, "I don't mean that."

The surprised look on her face is strangely gratifying.

And it is enough.

She steps forward, reaches out her perfectly manicured, long-fingered hands to Castiel. Dean draws him back, and Castiel must squeeze at his wrist again in reassurance. He backs off but he watches Kali with narrowed eyes.

She takes hold of Castiel's face, and her palms are hot to the touch against his frozen, damp skin.

"This will hurt," she tells him impassively.

It can't be much worse than it is now, Castiel thinks, but maybe he's wrong because then there is fire not just in his stomach but everywhere, thrumming through every vein in his borrowed – _stolen_ – body. It's impossible to know if he falls or if he screams, because all he can think is _pain_ , and all he can see is fire, and all he can hear is angry whispering as the shadows are pushed back, away, out of the world, back to wherever they came from.

When it's over, the world comes slowly back to Castiel. His legs are still under him, locked at the knees. Dean is holding him close against his chest. Water drips from his hair into his eyes, the saltiness of it irritating. He's cold except for where he can feel Dean pressed against him. He feels light, his stomach empty. The whispering, the hissing, the _evil_ is gone.

"Thank you," Sam is saying. "Holy crap. Thank you."

Castiel stands himself upright, legs shaky but holding. Maybe for once, Castiel thinks, he will sleep heavily tonight.

Kali stands beside them, watching Dean and Castiel with interest.

"You stopped them," Castiel says from the safety of Dean's arms.

Kali shakes her head. "I stopped nothing."

"Then why—" Sam starts to ask, but Kali cuts him off with a wave of her hand.

"It was never about _stopping them_ ," she says irritably. "There are thousands of paths into this world. They will find another. I closed this one because of Loki, because he loved his useless, selfish, asshole brothers."

She turns her unblinking gaze back to Castiel. "But then, you are not like your brothers at all."

And in the blink of an eye she's gone.

Outside, the storm still rages, and Castiel is certain that whatever the shadows might have been, they were a symptom rather than the cause of whatever has been happening to the world. They were foot soldiers, an advance guard, paving the way for something else. Something worse.

The three of them stand close together in their abandoned, cold shelter, and Castiel tries not to remember what he saw in the eyes of those creatures. He tries not to remember what they called Master.

  



End file.
